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Prin. Avaunt, perplexity! what shall we do,
. Good Madam, if by me you'll be advis'd,
Boyet. Ladies, withdraw, the Gallants are at hand. Prin. Whip to our Tents, as roes run o'er the land.
[Exeunt. S CE N E
VII. Before the Princess's Pavilion. Enter the King, Biron, Longaville, and Dumain in their own habits; Boyet, meeting them.
KING. FAIR Sir, God save you! Where's the Princess ?
Boyet. Gone to her Tent. Please it your Majesty, command me any service to
her? King. That she vouchsafe me audience for one word.
i. e, clouds which veil Angels : And by this means gave us, as the old proverb fays, a cloud for a Juno. It was Shakespear's purpose to compare a fine lady to an angel ; it was Mr. Theobald's chance to compare hier to a cloud: And perhaps the ill-bred reader will fay a lucky one. However I supposed the Poet could never be so nonfenfical as to compare a masked lady to a cloud, though he might compare her mask to one. The Oxford Editor who had the ad. vantage both of this emendation and criticism, is a great deal more subtile and refined, and says it should not be angels veild in clouds, but angels veiling clouds, i. e. capping the sun as they go by him, just as a man veils his bonnet.
Shapeless gear; ] Shapeless, for uncoach, or what Shakespear elsewhere calls diffufed. VOL. II.
Boyet. I will; and so will she, I know my lord.
[Exit. Biron. This fellow picks up wit, as pidgeons peas; And utters it again, when Jove doth please: He is wit's pedlar, and retails his wares At wakes and waffals, meetings, markets, fairs: And we that fell by gross, the Lord doth know, Have not the grace to grace it with such show. This Gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve; Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve. He can carve too, and lisp: why, this is he, That kift away his hand in courtesie; This is the ape of form, Monsieur the nice, That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice In honourable terms: nay, he can fing A mean most mainly; and, in ushering, Mend him who can; the ladies call him sweet; The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet. 7 This is the flower, that smiles on every one, To fhew his teeth, as white as whale his bone
And 7 This is the flower, that smiles on ev'ry one,] The broken disjointed metaphor is a fault in writing. But in order to pass a true judgment on this fault, it is still to be observed, that when a metaphor is grown fo common as to desert, as it were, the figurative, and to be received into the common stile, then what may be affirmed of the thing represented, or the substance, may be affirmed of the thing representing, or the image. To illuftrate this by the instance before us, a very complaisant, finical, over-gracious person, was so commonly called the flower, or as he elsewhere expresies it, the pink of courtefe, that in common talk, or in the lowest stile, this metaphor might be used without keeping up the image, but any thing affirmed of it as of an agnomen : hence it might be said, without offence, to smile, to flatter, &c. And the reason is this; in the more solemn, less-used metaphors, our mind is so turned upon the image which the metaphor conveys, that it expects, this image should be, for some little time, continued, by terms proper to keep it in view. And if, for want of these terms, the image be no sooner presented than difmiffed, the mind suffers a kind of violence by being drawn off abruptly and unexpectedly from its contemplation. Hence it is
And consciences, that will not die in debt,
King. A blifter on his sweet tongue with my heart,
Enter the Princess, Rosaline, Maria, Catharine,
Boyet, and attendants.
that the broken, disjointed, and mix'd metaphor fo much shocks
But when it is once become worn and hacknied by common use, then even the very first mention of it is not apt to excite in us the representative image; but brings immediately before us the idea of the thing represented. And then to endeavour to keep up and continue the borrow'd ideas, by right adapted terms, would have as ill an effect on the other hand: Because the mind is already gone off from the image to the substance. Grammarians would do well to consider what has been here said when they set upon amending Greek and Roman writings. For the much-used hacknied metaphors being now very imperfectly known, great care is required not to act in this case temerarioufly.
8 behaviour, what wert thou,
'Till this man shew'd thee? and what art thou now?] These are two wonderfully fine lines, intimating that what courts call manners, and value themselves so much upon teaching, as a thing no where else to be learnt, is a modeft filent accomplishment under the direction of nature and common sense, which does its office in promoting social life without being taken notice of. But that when it degenerates into thew and parade it becomes an unmanly contemptible quality.
King. We come to visit you, and purpose now
To lead you to our Court; vouchlafe it then. Prin. This field shall hold me, and so hold your
Nor God, nor I, delight in perjur'd men. King. Rebuke me not for That, which you provoke;
9 The virtue of your eye must break my oath. Prin. You nick-name virtue; vice you should have
For virtue's office never breaks mens troth.
As the unsully'd lilly, I protest,
I would not yield to be your house's guest;
Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame.
We have had pastimes here, and pleasant game. A mess of Rusians left us but of late.
King. How, Madam? Rusians?
Prin. Ay, in truth, my lord;
Rof. Madam, speak true. It is not so, my lord :
9 The virtue of your eye must break my oath.) Common sense requires us to read,
MADE break my oath, i. e, made me. And then the reply is pertinent It was the force of your beauty that made me break my oath, therefore you ought not to upbraid me with a crime which you yourself was che cause of.
I dare not call them fools; but this I think,
Biron. This jest is dry to me. Fair, gentle, sweet,
Rof. This proves you wise and rich ; for in my eye-
Rof. But that you take what doth to you belong,
Biron. O, I am yours, and all that I possess.
you this ?
Rof. There, then, that vizor, that fuperfluous Cafe,
ness fad? Rof. Help, hold his brows, he'll swoon: why look
you pale ?
Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy.
Biron. Thus pour the stars down plagues for Per
Can any face of brass hold longer out?
Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout,
Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit;